


Crá Croí

by Etwas_Schlau



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Denial of Feelings, Developing Relationship, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, F/F, Fluff and Humor, Hate to Love, Idiots in Love, Jewish Angela "Mercy" Ziegler, Memes, POV Third Person Limited, Past Tense, Pre-Fall of Overwatch, Romance, This Is STUPID
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-06-05 09:28:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15167696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Etwas_Schlau/pseuds/Etwas_Schlau
Summary: Angela hates Moira. Like,reallyhates Moira. So why in G-d's name does she find herself growing acquainted and missing her when she's not around?





	Crá Croí

**Author's Note:**

> **Note:** I do not own Overwatch. All rights to the game and its characters belong to Blizzard.
> 
> y'all be out here taking moicy way too seriously. i'm just in it for the memes, man

This was not how things were supposed to go at all.

The day six feet and six inches of awkward limbs and ginger hair called Moira O’deorain first breezed into Overwatch was the day Angela’s life got exponentially worse. She had been hard at work experimenting on a more advanced form of nanotech when she had decided to break for more coffee. She’d slipped from her lab with her ‘World’s Best Doctor’ mug (a gift from Genji) like a hermit emerging from a cave for caffeine.

As she stirred a stale brick of Splenda into lukewarm coffee, (she wasn’t sure where all of Overwatch’s growing funding was going but it certainly wasn’t the coffee bar,) an unfamiliar voice drew her eyes to one of the break tables on the other side of the room. A ghastly pale and sinfully tall woman with fiery red hair slicked back with what could easily be cooking oil based on the reflective shine of it, stood over an indignant-looking Torbjorn with a drawstring backpack slung over her shoulder and hideous plaid suspenders decorating her disturbingly long torso.

“-these turrets of yours are truly  _ archaic _ , it’s almost adorable,” she was saying with a thick accent and even thicker condescension.

Angela was staring, unsure whether or not she was hallucinating. 

She felt, rather than saw, Ana’s presence beside her at the counter. She turned to her as she poured herself some tea, motioning to Moira with dumbfounded eyes once she caught Ana’s attention. 

“Who-” she couldn’t articulate any further but she knew Ana understood.

“Moira O’deorain. She’s a renowned doctor and geneticist in Ireland who used to work at Oasis.”

Putting aside the fact that she couldn’t believe a supposedly distinguished scientist was wearing a Naruto t-shirt, she stumbled on. “What is she-”

“She’s a new hire.”

Angela turned to Ana very slowly. “ _ Her? _ ” Her eyes flickered back to Moira’s Tommy Bahama sandals and brown braided leather belt.  _ For g-d’s sake, she was wearing a belt and suspenders together. _

“You and I both know we’re in need of more doctors. You should be glad, with her stationing here, she’ll help with a significant amount of your workload.”

_ “We’re going to be working together!?” _

Angela  _ hated  _ Moira, for more reasons than she could count. It was insulting enough that she suddenly had to share her already cramped workspace with someone, but it was a special sort of unbearable when she opened her lab door in the mornings to see anime posters on the walls and garish yellow and purple decor where she had once had clean counters and minimalistic art prints. Simply the presence of Moira made her days insufferable; she could feel those mismatched eyes watching her work when she wasn’t looking, internally (and far too often, externally,) criticising her experiments.    
  
Moira ate her box of authentic Swiss chocolate that Torbjorn had gifted her for her anniversary at Overwatch and when Angela had vociferously protested, replaced it with non-Swiss. She had stolen and burned some of her shabbat candles for “ambiance”. She continuously left volumes of manga everywhere; on her desk, on her counter, on top of her beakers. She incessantly played ‘The Sign’ by Ace of Base while she was trying to work. She repeatedly made their lab rank with the smell of Axe body spray that lingered for days and seemed to cling to the walls. It was infuriating.

The worst part of it all was that, despite her very clear disdain towards Moira, she was always overzealously friendly to her, almost to the point of downright ass-kissing. She would leave little gifts on Angela’s desk on her days off, (and it took all of her willpower to not tell Moira that her not being in the lab was a gift itself,) doctor-themed charms and decorative figurines and first editions of her favourite books that always left her flabbergasted that Moira knew all of the things she liked. Whenever she went out for her lunch break, she would bring something back for her, even when she had her own packed lunch. If she ran out of bandages or syringes or needles, a new supply would appear in her cabinet by the next time she checked. 

She wasn’t sure if Moira was ignoring her hatred of her in some inexplicable effort to befriend her, or if Moira was just so self-absorbed that she didn’t notice it, but either way, it became slowly harder and harder to despise her. Where complaints and biting remarks used to be, joking jabs and the rare compliment appeared. She told herself that it was just long-term exposure making her want to be more friendly, that being civil was simply less taxing than wasting energy on animosity. 

Yeah, of course, that was totally it. It wasn’t like she actually  _ liked  _ the Sailor Moon-quoting narcissist with the flying spaghetti monster bumper sticker on her 2001 Honda Civic. Definitely something normal and understandable that wouldn’t keep her up at night. For sure.

She didn’t realize the obvious until Moira went on her holiday back to Ireland. It was only for a week, and she had had to gripe with Ana and Jack just to get that. She had bid Mercy goodbye far too sincerely, promising to bring her back a souvenir. Angela had waved her away dismissively, muttering something about enjoying her absence that even  _ she _ didn’t believe anymore.

The next morning she’d entered their lab brandishing a tattered volume of Mobile Suit Gundam 0083: Stardust Memory she had found in the women’s restroom over her head.

“Moira, how many times have I-” she began, trailing off as she realized she was kvetching into an empty room. It was chilling how empty their workspace felt without Moira’s towering presence on her side of the lab, writing down experimental data with one hand whilst reading manga with the other. Without the tinny sound of ‘Cotton-Eye Joe’ playing over Moira’s headphones (that’d she’d bought after Angela had complained about her terrible music taste,) loud enough to be heard across the room. Without the nearly repulsive sight (and sound) of Moira biting into an entire clove of garlic like an apple as she worked.

It was also suddenly discombobulating as she realized she didn’t think of this as  _ her  _ lab that Moira happened to share anymore. It was theirs. Together.

_ Son of a bitch.  _

She was in love with Moira.

Moira O’deorain, self-proclaimed ‘sapiosexual’ and asshole extraordinaire. Moira O’deorain, the woman who wore pretentious, bespoke lab coats over monogrammed suspenders when she was on the clock and cargo shorts with individual toe shoes when she wasn’t. Moira O’-fucking-deorain, who had gotten under her skin since the moment they’d met with her smug smirks and shrewd heterochromatic eyes and silky-looking hair and statuesque shoulders…

_ Son of a bitch! _ __  
__  
She’d gotten no work done that day, wondering how she could possibly be head-over-heels for a woman who did cybergoth dance routines and owned every single volume of Naruto manga in existence. The worst thing was that Moira was going to be gone for the rest of the week while she was left to suffer alone with nothing to distract her from the new epiphany she’d come to. Not that Moira would necessarily be an adequate distraction from her thoughts about Moira. Fuck.

Angela spent the second day of Moira’s absence trying to figure out what she wanted. Maybe she could just have a one-night stand with her and get whatever was going on out of her system. But then why wouldn’t the thought of kissing Moira’s neck leave her head? Of going to Overwatch functions together hand in hand? Of forcing her into celebrating Jewish holidays she knew she’d hate? Of Moira’s lips brushing across her knuckles in her patented ‘almost-annoyingly-chivalrous’ way? 

Of going home together after work to a shared apartment covered with their contrasting belongings, of arguing about what to have for dinner before settling on creating a homemade disaster of a recipe from the internet. Of watching a shitty romantic comedy as a compromise between the anime film Moira would want and the scientific documentary she would want, of falling asleep on the couch with her head on Moira’s shoulder. 

She knew what she wanted. 

After a painstaking week of fantasizing, she found herself waiting by the door of the Gibraltar base like a wife whose husband was returning from war. She recognized that bright orange shock of hair from a mile away, nearly tripping over the stairs in her hurry to meet her as she approached the door. 

“Angie?” Mismatched eyes widened a bit more than Moira would likely admit before recovering with a smug expression and a quip. “Someone’s eager to see me.”

“...Shut up.” She was already beginning to regret what she was about to do. She’d never hear the end of it.

“I brought you back something, as I promised,” Moira began, rummaging through the pack she had slung over her shoulder. 

“Wait, before you do that, there’s something I have to give you myself.”

Her shaved eyebrows lifted a bit. “Oh? What is it?”

“This,” she announced before pulling Moira’s head down by her plaid tie and planting a chaste kiss on her lips. 

Mercy released the necktie and pulled away, face wrinkling as she ran her tongue over her own lips. “Have you been eating garlic again.” It wasn’t even a question.

Moira looked sheepish in response for a fleeting moment before a self-satisfied grin spread across her face. “Well, this certainly is a new development.”

Biting back an insult of some flavour, Angela met Moira’s eyes with equal parts challenge and vulnerability. “And what are your thoughts on this development?”

“I highly approve.”

It was Mercy’s turn to grin and Moira’s to lean in for a kiss, careful and surprisingly inexperienced. It was clumsy but blissful, and Angela held fast to Moira’s shoulders.

When they parted for breath, foreheads pressed together, Angela noticed a small white box Moira had dropped from her bag in shock. 

“Is that my souvenir?” she asked, breaking the moment.

Moira squirmed uncharacteristically, not meeting Angela’s eyes. “No, that’s- something for my research-”

Angela plucked the box from the ground before Moira could stop her, taking a step back as she attempted to snatch it from her hands, and opened the hinged lid. She stared; inside was a delicate gold necklace in the shape of an austere heart that had ‘A + M’ engraved into the metal in flowing cursive.

First she was stunned. Touched, even. 

Then she flashed a shit-eating grin at Moira.

“You were going to ask me out!” she accused gleefully.

“I was not-”

“You were! You used the souvenir thing as a way to ask me out!”

Moira pinched the bridge of her nose between her eyes. “I’m never hearing the end of this, am I?”

“You most certainly are not.”

“You are a child.”

They entered the base together, heading toward their lab in amicable silence. 

“Moira?”

“Yes, Angela?”

“I accept your offer.” Her tongue was between her teeth in mirth again.

Moira sighed, rolling her eyes dramatically but also catching Angela’s hand and intertwining their fingers as they walked. “I accept yours as well.”

**Author's Note:**

>  ~~thank~~ blame fern @dykemoira on tumblr and all her anons for this
> 
> comrade-schlau.tumblr.com


End file.
